


Yellow Absentia

by januarywren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Hermione Granger, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Drabble, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione Granger-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Medical Conditions, Memory Alteration, No Slash, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Severus Snape, Pining Draco Malfoy, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Tenderness, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: “Tea, Severus?” She asked, reaching for the floral bowl that held a towering pile of sugar cubes. She used silver prongs to drop two of them into her teacup; thrilled at her ability to do so, before absently spotting at the tea that sloshed over the side. She hadn’t been able to grasp the prongs days before, her hand too unsteady.She hadn't been able to hide it before Severus had added another bitter phial to her medicine. "One for your control," He'd said, making no further comment on her weakness; something she appreciated. He never made her feel weak; not when he took her flailing arm, without a word, and led her to the shower, and toweled her off after; briskly, before kissing her soundly, as if she were a normal, whole woman. He could be kind, kinder than anyone knew; in his own understated way.AU | Hermione saved Severus during the war and suffers devastating effects because of it. Now, Severus saves her in turn.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellastark/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the incredible Stellastark. 💗🦉
> 
> Your story, The Contract, is one of the most heartbreaking and beautiful fanfics I've ever read. I devoured it in a day and burst into tears countless chapters (something I'm shamelessly admitting to!). You capture the rawness of Severus's pain incredibly so and write an unflinching view of his faults and virtues. Lucius's abuse of Hermione was brutal to read, yet you make one *want* to support him as he seeks forgiveness and happiness from Hermione. 
> 
> And your portrayal of Hermione? The best I've ever read. 
> 
> I'm in love with your story, enamored and utterly in love. I'm hoping for a happy ending (with Lucius, Hermione, and Severus together) though I think it's going to be bittersweet and send me into tears again. 🐍🖤 Truly your work is incredible, and everyone should read it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003911/chapters/34775843
> 
> But have a box of tissues next to you, if you do!
> 
> This fic came out of nowhere, and wouldn't let me go. I wanted to include Lucius but it just didn't feel right, though I intend to write something with him and Hermione eventually. 🖤 Lumione is as irresistible as tomione and sevmione. 
> 
> Hope you like my little fic!

“Hermione.”

  
  
She knew by the abruptness of his tone that it was time for her medicine.

  
  
She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the looming wraith that was her husband. He’d known how to inspire fear once; in her, and her peers. Indeed, the only person besides Dumbledore who hadn’t been afraid of him was McGonagall, Hermione thought with fondness; a smile toying with her lips.

  
  
Now, she only felt warmth when she saw him.

  
  
“Tea, Severus?” She asked, reaching for the floral bowl that held a towering pile of sugar cubes. She used silver prongs to drop two of them into her teacup; thrilled at her ability to do so, before absently spotting at the tea that sloshed over the side. She hadn’t been able to grasp the prongs days before, her hand too unsteady.

  
She hadn't been able to hide it before Severus had added another bitter phial to her medicine. "One for your control," He'd said, making no further comment on her weakness; something she appreciated. He never made her feel weak; not when he took her flailing arm, without a word, and led her to the shower, and toweled her off after; briskly, before kissing her soundly, as if she were a normal, whole woman. He could be kind, kinder than anyone knew; in his own understated way.

  
She didn't look up as her husband settled across from her, instead of busying herself with making his cup. She knew how he liked it; his tastes unchanging. Two sugars and a dash of milk, she told herself firmly. Two sugars and a dash of milk.

  
  
Across from her, he stirred. “Hermione?”

  
  
She glanced up, realizing she’d said it aloud. “Ah-" He raised his crooked brow.

  
  
“I’m a bit tired,” she said. “Rose kept me awake last night chasing the moonlight.” At the sound of her name, the kneazle swished its tail, before rolling on her back and nipping at her mistress’s feet. “She bumped into the bookshelves and knocked over a lamp-" she sipped her tea, hiding her smile in her drink. Rose was curious and bold; traits suspiciously similar to her owner.

  
  
She couldn’t be angry, not with the full kneazle that was always at her side. She’d been a present from Harry (yes, she thought, Rose was from him. Harry - her friend.) after her familiar Crookshanks had passed. Rose was a shocking ball of grey and white fluff; her mane as righteous as her mistress's, and meow just as loud and demanding.

  
  
His head shook.

  
  
“I found you asleep outside,” Severus said, his tones clipped. “Ankle deep in the snow and in your nightgown. If Rose hadn’t alerted me with her incessant meowing-" He inhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suggest you find warmer accommodations, Hermione.”

  
  
Her smile faltered, and she lowered her teacup.

  
  
“Oh.”

  
  
She couldn’t hide the way her cheeks flamed with an abject feeling of failure; her excursion into the snow something she couldn’t remember. Her ankle rubbed against the other; only then did Hermione notice the way her skin was chafed, and red; the lingering burns from frostbite.

  
  
“Would you care? If I’d stayed out there?”

  
  
She wasn’t supposed to ask things like that. His lips curled downwards into his trademark sneer. “Surely you know the answer to that.” Somehow, his words lacked their fiery bite.

  
  
She didn’t flinch, not from him. “Do I?”

  
  
He didn’t reply; turning his head with a snort. (Why?)

  
  
“I didn’t mean to leave,” Hermione said. She didn’t want to fight, not when he was so close to her. He’d storm away from her when he was upset; his hands fisted at his sides, and his back to her. She knew he’d go to his laboratory, or to the gardens, and that he’d come back. Or she’d find him; throwing her arms about his stiff back and press her cheek against the silky fabric of his robes; apologizing, and he’d turn; taking her into his arms while chiding her. 

  
  
“Silly girl,” He’d murmur. “I’m here.”

  
  
He always was, she’d reminded herself. He wouldn't leave her without a word.

  
Still, the fear persisted, niggling like a worm when they fought. She felt his knees near hers; the table just large enough for both of them. "I don't-" She paused, chewing on the inside of her lip. "I thought I saw something out there. Someone,” She inclined her head toward the bay window. “Neville.” She decided.

  
  
“Longbottom?”

  
"Yes," she said as if it was perfectly normal. It was, she thought, her normal. "It looked like Neville - he was clutching something in his hand - flowers? That he wanted me to see." Flowers carved from newly fallen snow, their petals glowing beautifully bright. "He wasn't there at all, was he?" She asked softly.

  
  
“Your storytelling lacks eloquence,” Severus drawled. “Longbottom would hardly be out in the midst of a snowstorm.” His hands trembled as he flicked lint off his cravat. “If you’d said Potter or Weasley, I may have believed you. No, Longbottom was snug in his bed,” his tone dripped with sarcasm. “The same as you should have been.”

  
  
She reached for his cup, carefully pouring tea into it, before glancing at Severus. His eyes were harsh like obsidian; hard and unyielding, and beautiful too. “Three sugars and a dash of milk,” She said aloud.

  
She knew she'd gotten it wrong when he dipped his head forward and slid his hand across the table; phials of amber-colored liquid beneath his fingers. He didn't need to instruct her.

  
  
She took the bottles; one, two, three vials of bitterness and uncorked them, before downing them in the right order. One for her heart, one for her head, and one for her shaking hands and tongue that lolled about in her mouth, as numb as it could be, and bleeding at the end from her sharp teeth. Severus had had to bandage her tongue once; using bandages as if he were a Muggle and made her shakes that she drank through a straw. She still could taste the remnants of cotton on her tongue; the taste burned into her taste buds. No, she never missed a day of her medicine; wanting to be better, no, wanting to be the_ best_ she could.

  
  
“Thank you,” She said, before pausing. “Severus.”

  
  
His hand stayed on the table, tantalizingly close to hers, before withdrawing. “You have little reason to thank me, Hermione.”

  
  
She did. She _knew_ she did, her brow knitting.

  
  
Her mind was clouding, and she wanted to drift; her arms wide and spread in the deep, blue sea. Drifting through memories was normal, Snape said. It was nothing to be afraid of; lest it turn into a Boggart. Her professor was smart; smarter than anyone really knew, the potions entirely his own. They were going to cure her; transforming her from the inside out from something.

  
  
Something she didn’t want to know.

  
She shook her head, clinging to what she wanted to tell him before she slipped away. "You've done so much to help me," Hermione replied, motioning to the phials (Oh! How she hated them as they stung her throat and nipped at every crevice of her intestines, pulling them apart.) that she needed; regardless of whether she wanted them.

  
  
They let her live again.

  
  
“How many rounds of potions did it take until my hands stopped shaking? You never-" She nibbled at her lip. “You never complained, not once, even when I vomited on your shoes and couldn’t get out of bed for days. I know you don’t like when I say things like this, sir- “

  
  
She knew her professor; the dour, waspish man that excelled at potions with a skill unparalleled. He’d always said her essays were too lengthy (“How is it, Miss Granger, you use every adjective and noun known to man, yet fail to make a point?”) and her thoughts too broad. But she wanted to thank him; she _did_, even if he snarled and snapped.

  
  
“You turned the pages when I couldn’t - I thought I’d go mad if I couldn’t read again. You knew that, didn’t you?” Her eyes focused on the table, laden with half-opened books and the remnants from their tea. They always cleaned up together, their house free of house-elves. “I think you did, though you’d say I was an ignorant know it all- “

  
  
She giggled, the sound feeling right in her mouth.

  
  
Immediately she covered her mouth with her fingers, realizing that she’d laughed in front of Snape. Her professor! She waited for him to snap and snarl, her eyes darting downward. “Sorry, professor - “

  
  
“Miss Granger,” He interrupted her, his mouth twisting funny about the words. It was how he’d always addressed her, she thought, why was it different now? “Would you do the same for me?”

  
  
She blinked, her fingers lowering. “I’d do anything for you, Professor.”

  
  
He’d laid down his life to protect them - Harry, Ron, and herself - from an errant werewolf, and later, the Dark Lord and his pet, Nagini. Her arm burned when she thought of it, and her lips trembled as she remembered Snape laying in a pool of his own blood, and Harry’s hand pressed to his gushing neck. She couldn’t remember what happened after, how Snape had survived, not by herself; her own memories were vacant, echoing caverns when she tried to remember; throwing her questions (What happened? What had Snape done?) back at her.

  
That was why she had Harry's letter, his much read and bedraggled letter, folded into squares and tucked into her skirt pocket. She read it when she couldn't remember when she _wanted_ to remember.

  
  
‘_You stayed with him, Hermione,_’ Harry’s bold handwriting said. ‘_Using every healing spell that you knew (Episky! Episky!) until You-Know-Who was dead, and we could come back- didn’t want him to die alone‘ _

  
  
‘A miracle- You never gave up on him, ‘Mione. Sorry! I know you hate that nickname but-‘

  
  
‘He was on our side the whole time.’

  
  
His hands were on her then, his gentle fingers wrapped about her wrists. He was crouched before her; a figure swathed in black, and his eyes relentlessly piercing hers. “Did I go-“

  
  
“You did.”

  
  
She shifted, looking back to the table where the bowl of sugar was upturned, and the teapot cracked; tea running like a mud-colored river across the table. Tea was the only thing she could make for Snape after she'd left the gas stove on, and let the eggs burn until they caught fire; steamrolling throughout the cottage. Snape had found her standing next to the stove, an absent look on her face and her lips silently moving; reciting the ingredients for Amorentia. "I'm sorry- "

  
  
She was supposed to do something; something for him.

  
  
_Two sugars_-

  
  
His grip tightened. “You shouldn’t.”

  
  
“Sir?” She blinked, looking at his paling face. His _anguished _face. (Why? Why was he upset? Her fingers trembled, wanting nothing more than to smooth his furrowed brow.)

  
  
“You shouldn’t do anything for me, foolish girl.” He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing kisses across her knuckles. They were kisses that burned, and she sucked in a breath as his lips caressed her pinky finger. He took the tip of her finger into his mouth; nibbling and fondling it with his tongue, before letting it go. She felt he’d done it before; done something _more. _

  
  
“Please,” she wanted to say, instead of biting her tongue. “Show me what I’m missing.”

  
  
Her toes tingled and curled inside of her slippers.

  
  
“But I would,” she insisted, as Gryffindors were known to do. Gryffindor - she’d been sorted into Gryffindor; the brave and relentlessly bold house. “You died for us.”

  
  
He held her hand still, his fingers rubbing soothing circles over her skin.

“I would have died for one.” He said slowly; softly, in a way she’d never heard before. “_One_, girl, not three. It would suit you to remember that, Miss Granger.”

  
  
“I know, sir.”

  
  
She did - she _did_.

  
  
She leaned forward, feeling as if she’d done it a thousand times before, resting against his chest. He didn’t scold her, he didn't snap, as he would have if a student had dared to rest against him. Instead, he sighed, and his arms came about her stiffly, before relaxing. As if she meant something.

  
  
“Impossible girl.”

  
  
Her head turned; ear pressed against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. “You’re my husband,” Hermione whispered, the realization sudden. She was certain again; certain that he wasn’t her professor, not anymore; not since the war. The exact events since were hazy; though she remembered that fact, through the swirling doubts.

  
His hand stroked the small of her back, and she wished, fervently, that she could remember.

  
  
“Aren’t you, Severus?” The words tingled beneath her skin; impossibly warm, impossible right. She wanted to say his name over and over again, as she heard his heart thrum like a wild bird furiously beating its wings against its cage. “Severus.” She whispered as if his name could keep her there.

  
  
His face buried in her curls; wild and beautiful.

  
  
“Yes,” He murmured. “I am, Hermione.”  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by NCUH, thank you! 🦝🖤


	2. II

_Then._

  
  
“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; turn why wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud; thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.” The book was steady in his hands, the words lighter still on his moving lips. "Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; with that wheel, we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great."

  
  
Her lips met the groove of his neck. “Don’t stop there,” She whispered, her voice husky.

  
  
They both knew how she loved his voice; the secret one he’d taken from her with a gleaming smirk and straying hands. “_Please_, sir.”

  
  
“Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands,” He fingered the novel’s spine, feeling its imposed grace. “For man is man and master of his fate.”

  
  
He never read the next part; not when her lips climbed higher, and her kisses became bolder. His eyes closed, and head tilted as she paused at the harsh tick of his jaw that she loved to soothe. “Hermione,” He praised, setting the book aside; something he would only do for her.

  
  
Distracting, silly girl.

  
  
His hands entangled in her hair; curling wild strands about his fingers. He tugged her forward, forward on to him; her forehead meeting his, and lips brushing against his chin. She loved to tease and provoke; her kisses sweeping past his lips, to the bridge of his aristocratic nose, and to the arch of his brow. “Mine,” She purred, in a voice that she only used for him; a delicious, breathy voice that only he knew. “All- “Kiss. “Of.” Kiss. “You.”

  
  
His lips caught hers; the answer emblazed on his skin.

  
  
_Yes_, Hermione, _yes_.

  
  
Her mouth opened and his tongue swept into her open mouth; entangling with her hot tongue. He loved how they enmeshed together; her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, as she straddled him. He felt her excitement; the dampening of her knickers, as surely as she felt his pressing against her bare thigh.

  
  
His sweet, perfect girl.

  
She'd found him in a rare moment of lost composure; his face buried in his hands, and unshed tears buried further still in his sodding, black heart. He'd felt the weight of the war bearing down on his shoulders; the burning of his glib tongue and billowing robes. He'd felt the weight of everything; Lily and Riddle and insufferable Dumbledore. Harry, the boy he longed to hate and had to protect.

  
  
_Lily. Lily. Lily_-

  
  
She’d cast a warming charm about his shivering form and left him alone.

  
  
Oh! He’d felt her eyes on him; dancing like champagne bubbles in the light and irises blown-wide, while he snapped and snarled. She’d seen a part of him that no one else had (that no one else would; never, never, _never_!) and he knew she wouldn’t let it go. Not when she was a Gryffindor, not when she was the brightest witch of her age.

  
  
Not when she-

"I thought you looked cold, sir." She'd told him after he'd caught her arm and pulled her into an abandoned alcove. He'd shaken her; demanding, “Tell me the truth girl!”

  
And she had.

  
  
“I know what it’s like,” she’d murmured, blanching.

  
  
“How?” His lip had curled. She was a girl; one half his age, one that had never experienced what he had. How could she possibly understand? Yet the look she’d given him; the look of a doe meeting the eyes of man, was one he understood well.

  
  
‘_We’re both alone, even in the Great Hall_.’

  
  
He’d hadn’t thought to snap that she had Potter; Weasley. He hadn’t, not when he looked into the eyes of himself. There were no falsehoods; no deceptions, not in her eyes, nor in his. She’d waited for him to reply, before turning on her heel.

  
  
He’d let her go, then.

  
  
Something he would never do now.

  
His hands cradled her cheeks, as he thrust himself into her sweetness.

  
  
She was eager in his arms; begging and ready for him. He found his home inside of her; gasping as her arms twined about his neck, and her legs wrapped about his hips; urging him further, _further_ inside of her.

  
  
“Severus!”

  
She cried out; a beautiful choked sound that he longed to hear again and again. They knew each other as no one else had; and as he buried his face into her neck, he swore that no one ever would. There was only her; only him.

  
  
“My wife,” He crooned. They’d married under the great weeping willow before the war turned; a moment of selfishness that he couldn’t bring himself to regret. It’d been a private ceremony; the two of them swearing their love to another, before whispering ancient rites. “My life.”

* * *

  
  
_Now._

  
  
It was the last part that he read to himself now, “Turn, thy wheel above the staring crowd; thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud-“

  
  
His index finger traced beneath the words.

  
  
The right side of his bed was empty; the sheets bereft of warmth.

  
  
“Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.” He recited the words that encircled him; the ones that had meant so much to him.

* * *

  
  
_Then._

  
  
She hadn’t listened.

  
  
He’d held her at arm’s length and swore that she was nothing more than a _mud blood_ (oh! How the words had torn at his tongue) and he would kill her if he must.

  
  
“If the Dark Lord wishes,” He’d murmured, his voice as silky as the kisses he’d lavished over her skin. “I will gut you on his dinner table.”

  
  
He’d bore his eyes; two black pools of nothing into hers. Tears had pricked at her eyes and she’d told him to sod off; a threat he hadn’t flinched from. She was the same as a kitten, one he held by the neck, above a rushing river. “Fifty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger.”

  
  
He’d left her then, with his hands curled into fists, and blood pooling from his palms. His nails had embedded in his skin; the lies burning him from the inside out, more than any he’d said before. For her, Severus reminded himself. For her.

  
  
Lily? Hermione?

  
  
_For her_.

  
  
His ilk - Death Eaters - had stormed the school the next night. Dumbledore fell.

  
  
And when the war erupted, and he found himself dying in the darkened Shrieking Shack, she’d come.

* * *

  
  
_Then._

  
  
“Severus- “She’d held his head in her lap and pressed her hands against his neck; careless of the blood that seeped from him. “Oh god- “

  
  
The other halves of the trio - Weasley, with his blanched face and trembling hands had pulled at Hermione’s shoulder, while Potter, the beloved boy, gazed down at his dying professor with indescribable emotion.

  
  
No. Questions.

  
  
“I won’t leave him!” She’d ignored Ron’s hand at her elbow and clutched their professor closer; her clothes stained in his blood. “I won’t! Please -“  
"Please, Harry- Ron-“

  
  
“’Mione-“

  
  
“He’ll die alone,” She whispered, her lip trembling. “He’ll die here, alone, - alone -you don’t understand-“

  
  
They hadn’t.

  
  
It was Harry who realized their friend had slipped through their fingers, all with a heart full of love, and eyes brimming with tears. “Ron- “

  
  
“After,” Hermione had all but shrieked. “I’ll come after- “

  
  
“After he goes.”

* * *

  
  
_Then._

  
  
She hadn’t learned.

  
  
_silly girl._

  
  
Not his words, not his actions in the last moments between them. No, a part of him whispered, as he saw her with his eyes half-open. She acted as if she cared still.

  
  
“Severus,” She whispered. “Severus, _please_\- “

  
  
She’d cast every healing spell that she knew and crammed every potion he had on him down his throat. He hadn’t been a fool - he’d known that something could - that something _would_ happen. Riddle had been the same as his cursed snake; his dripping fangs pressed against Severus’s neck, ever threatening to break the skin.

  
  
No, Severus knew, when his worth finished, then Riddle would tear his throat apart.

  
  
“Won’t - let - you - go.” With every word, she painted her wish across his bare skin; as if it would be enough, as rich and thick as dittany. His lips crooked into a sneer.

  
  
_if only it was_.

* * *

  
_Now._

  
  
The world he knew was _obliviated_.

  
  
Like the mark on his arm, everything was gone.

  
  
Voldemort. Dumbledore. The losses were countless, and grief a relentless shroud over the wizarding world, for the most grieved was Harry Potter. “The Boy Who Lives No More,” Severus read, sneering at Skeeter’s bold title.

  
  
She’d been fired from her post and hexed in the streets; before quietly reinstated as the editor of the etiquette column; advising brides on what shade of white to wear, and the proper arrangement of silverware. Severus kept Skeeter’s last main page in the bottom of his drawer, tucked alongside other remnants of the world he’d known: a photo of Lily laughing, a locket with a lock of his mother’s hair, and letters he’d penned to Hermione. Letters that he’d never sent, and she’d never read; written in the times he thought of her, while tucked away in the hospital, wishing nothing more than to be with her.

  
  
He hadn’t known, then, how close she’d been to him.

  
  
In the months he’d spent recuperating at St. Mungo’s, she’d been on the floor above his; sequestered in the wing where the mind healers were. The news of Harry - broken by a screaming, shell-shocked Ron, Severus learned later - had done something irrevocable. It’d silenced her voice.

  
  
And left her mind, writhing and terribly alive.

* * *

  
_Then._

_  
  
myfault-_

  
  
“Hermione- “

_  
  
myfaultmyfault-_

_  
  
_She was screaming, her hands clutched about her head; wild and raging as the sea. He took her hands in his and pulled her against his chest. She struggled, thudding her fists against his chest; before leaning against him, as weak as a kitten.

_  
_  
“I won’t let go,” He choked. “Not of you.”

  
  
He never would.

  
  
_"I'm sorry._"

  
He gathered her in his arms and stormed out of the hospital room.

* * *

  
_Then._

  
  
“Severus?”

  
  
He heard her feet pad across the floor.

  
  
“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Hermione said her brow knitting. Her hair was loose about her shoulders; worn wild and free as she liked it, and his woolen nightshirt covered her frame. “Did we- “

  
  
She hesitated.

  
  
“Did we fight?”

  
  
He stretched his hand out to her, and she entangled her fingers through his. “No,” Severus murmured, his tone gentle; as it was only toward her. “I was reading - “He swept his other hand across the bed, where tomes circled him.

  
  
“Did you find anything?” She asked. “About - “

  
  
_about me?_

  
  
She knew she was missing things; important things. He knew from the twitching of her fingers and her sudden blinking that she was searching for things that weren’t there; things that would never be there again.

  
  
“No, little one.” 

  
Impossible, little things that he'd tucked away into phials lining a room that she'd never seen, the only room in their cottage that was warded to remain invisible to her. It was the room where he brewed the potions she hated and needed, and where he wept if dared to stop stirring, and remembered.

  
  
“Come back to me,” He said, tracing her elegant features with his eyes. He’d taken her from St Mungo’s; storming through the corridor in his patient robes and taken the Floo to the only place he knew: a cottage by the blistering sea, one homely enough to be without a name. He'd bought it when he was young and disillusioned, and kept the address tucked away; next to where Lily, his mother, and now Hermione hid, in the corners of his heart. “Come back, sweet girl.”

  
She blinked and tilted her head.

  
"Bed," He said as if he were talking to a child. He guided her hands up, up until she lifted her arms and he lifted her into his bed; settling her next to him where she belonged. “You’re safe, Hermione.”

  
  
Those were the words he’d said, after every murmured instruction, for weeks after they were out of the hospital. She’d stared at him with glassy eyes; jerking her head up and down when he gave her instructions (Eat - Dress - Sleep) or kept her head still, and only moved her fingers; cramming them away in the pockets of her jumper, or fraying the edges of her sweater. She’d been as skittish as a colt around him; staying curled in each room, as far as she could be from him, and staying still when he came near, with her chest rapidly rising and eyes darting about the room.

  
  
He’d learned how to soothe her; by humming half-remembered tunes, and reading the newspaper aloud to her, while allowing her to come to him on her terms. She’d edged closer and closer to him, until the day he’d heard her giggle, and realized she was reading the comics over his shoulder. She became trusting enough to have him hold her hands when she screamed, and bring her tea when she cried, without him telling her to drink it. He merely settled next to her crying form, draped a blanket over her shoulders, and drank from his own steaming cup.

  
  
She imitated and learned from him.

  
  
He’d given her medicine the same way; filling phials with water, and pretending to make faces at the bitter taste, as he sat across from her and watched her drink the real ones. His heart sang when she snatched his phial and sniffed at the opening; before giving him a look reminiscent of the Ms. Granger he knew.

  
  
He filled his with ginger, and peppermint after that; making his reactions real.

  
  
Bit by bit, she’d come back to him; the girl - the woman he'd known peeking from behind her comatose shell. She laid her head against his shoulder and turned the pages while he read; the cottage equipped with a suitable library, one that he'd found her walking through while running her hand over the books. She'd stopped at the last bookshelf and raised her hand; staring at her fingers in wonder; a picture he would remember forever.

  
  
Just as she began to remember things too.

  
She started to scream again; her body seizing, and tears streaming down her cheeks. She was terrified of him; of the shadows in every room, seemingly of the air, she breathed -

  
  
“Harry,” She whispered, rocking back and forth. “Harry - oh god - harry, harry, _harry_\- “

  
  
She wasn’t healing. She wasn’t living.

  
"She's dying, Severus," Minerva said bluntly. She was the only one he trusted to tell about Hermione, the only one he dared let in; no one else knowing where the two war heroes lived. (Heroes! He scoffed.) “The trauma is simply too much - “

  
  
“She’s a Gryffindor,” He’d sneered. “Surely - “

  
  
The woman’s stark gaze unnerved him. “Severus,” She said, as slowly and patiently as she would with a child. The war had changed them all; a weariness in Minerva that hadn’t been there before. “It is _too _much for the poor girl. She simply can’t take the truth.” Muggles called it post-traumatic stress disorder; the mind healers at St. Mungo’s, overwrought nerves.

  
  
“I did wonder,” Minerva said, her back turned to his still form. “When I heard that Hermione was discharged in rather _abrupt_ circumstances from St. Mungo’s, with the notorious Severus Snape, what your intentions were.”

  
  
He didn’t answer.

  
  
“I still wonder," Minerva continued, pinching a handful of Floo powder. "Is it about Potter, Severus? Or Lily?” Severus’s lips parted, but no words escaped; only a sharp exhale.

  
“Don’t let her suffer unnecessarily, Severus.” Minerva finished, before shouting for Hogwarts; vanishing in a cloud of green smoke.

  
  
He watched the empty Floo; a smattering of ashes in place of where the witch had stood.

  
  
“Do the right thing,” Severus echoed.

  
  
He knew the words the headmistress hadn’t said, instead knowing he’d understand what she meant. Hadn’t he always done the right thing? He thought. First with Lily, then with Dumbledore, and Riddle, and Potter. He’d always done the right thing in the worst of circumstance.

  
  
And now, Hermione - 

  
  
At his side, his hand clenched.

  
  
“Damn you,” He snarled, forcing the words from his throat. “Damn you, my sweet girl.”

* * *

  
  
_Then._

_  
  
_He’d nursed fire whiskey after adapting her memories, the first time.

  
  
It’d been the only thing to burn the taste of ashy regret from his mouth. Every sip burned the same as the scalding fire he watched, the logs crackling behind the glass.

  
  
In an upstairs bedroom, a girl burrowed beneath the covers dreamed; her dreams filled with acing her N.E.W.T.S, and a man with burning eyes.

* * *

  
  
_Now._

  
  
“Severus?”

  
  
Insistent fingers carded through his hair.

  
  
“Mhm?” He glanced down at the girl beside him. She’d come out of her daze; resting her head against his shoulder, fitting into place as she always had. 

  
  
“Will you read with me?”

  
  
“Of course.”

  
  
As if he could deny her; his finger crooking-

  
  
“_Accio_ Tennyson,” She called, as eagerly as she had when she was his student, with her hand perpetually waving in the air. She didn’t use magic often, not without him by her side. “This one, please.” She said, placing the slim book in his lap.

  
  
Tautly, he swallowed. “Not that one, Hermione.”

  
  
She left the book in his lap and studied him with her whiskey-colored eyes.

  
  
She’d lost none of her intentness; as serious and quietly understanding as she could be carefree, jumping and stamping her feet in the puddles when it rained, while calling him to join her. She was the child that he knew, and the woman that he’d fallen in love with entwined into one.

  
  
Her hands found his and turned it upward; tracing gentle circles on the inside of his wrist. “Calm and deep peace in this wide air, these leaves that redden to the fall;” She recited, her voice luminous and clear. She remembered everything they read, her memory never faltering when it came to literature. “And in my heart, if calm at all; if any calm, a calm despair.”

  
  
He didn’t speak.

  
  
Neither did she then, raising his hand to her lips and kissing his palm.

  
  
He shuddered at the feeling of her lips; impossibly gentle, and tender against his scarred skin. "But not with you," She whispered, glancing up at him. With her wide, honey-colored eyes. "I feel safe when I'm with you," She said. "Warm."

  
  
_happy_.

  
  
How could he say that she shouldn’t? How could he tell her that her trauma was because of him? For as surely as he knew his name, Severus knew that the Boy Wonder would have lived; had Hermione been at his side. And deep, deep down in the caverns of his treacherous heart, he was greedy for her trust; for the wide eyes that she turned on him, clear and full of love.

  
  
Trust.

  
  
She looked at him as no one else ever had, and he looked at her with eyes that mirrored the same. “Hermione,” He murmured, curling his fingers beneath her chin, and tilted it upward. She knew what he intended and nestled closer against him; her heart beating his name.

  
  
He kissed her temple, sweeping his lips down the bridge of her nose, and dusted her rosy cheeks in kisses. She was soft and yielding beneath his adoring kisses, and her mouth trembled as his lips caught hers.

  
  
“Please,” She whispered.

  
  
He touched her as if he adored her; his tongue slipping through her parted lips and tangling with her tongue. She tasted fire whiskey and a roaring fire, one that leaped and sang inside of her mouth; lit by the words he couldn't say.

  
  
_I love you._

  
  
Her lips curled into a toothy smile; reminding him of when he’d mocked her for them. He’d been a fool, a bitter-hearted, and cruel fool that wanted to hurt the world before it hurt him again. He blinked; feeling his eyes burn.

  
  
“Hermione,” He breathed. “Sweet, sweet wife.”

  
  
She pressed her index finger against his lips; never taking her eyes from his.

  
  
“I love you too,” Hermione said, as sweet and real as sugar spilling on his tongue. “I’ll always love you, Severus.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by NCUH, thank you! 🦝🖤


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had in mind to write this chapter, literally, since I uploaded the first chapter. 🤠
> 
> I'm on Christmas break now, and so happy to be. My health has been the *worst* and I'll see the doctor this week, fingers crossed she finds something. My body's determined to survive off of toast and tea lately if I eat anything else I get massive headaches, and nothing will take them away. 🥺
> 
> I posted in another story, that Louie (one of my cats), had to go to the vet last week for a mysterious growth he had. They drained it, and it was okay, but took a culture of it - he'll have to have surgery to remove it, otherwise, it'll continually need to be drained. Yuck!
> 
> I hope to update as many works as I can over break, and finish some too. :) Thank you for all the wonderful comments and support! It really does mean so much to me, especially when I'm feeling like this. Writing gives me something to look forwards to, and receiving your comments, kudos, etc. makes me happy. 🎄💗

Draco remembered sending the first letter.

His heart had stuttered inside his chest, and he’d twisted his wand between his fingers tightly enough to feel the wood threaten to splinter. He’d already had to replace his wand twice, no matter how he tried to remember his calming exercises when he felt his anxiety raise. How, he wondered, was he supposed to hold the panic at bay? It struck as suddenly as his owl did when hunting mice, at times, and took his breath away.

Yet the worst symptom, the one that no one had warned him about, and no book had aptly described was how dry his mouth would become, during his anxiety attacks. It felt like he had a mouthful of wool, his teeth clenching down upon it, until after when he realized he'd been grinding his teeth against his throbbing tongue. It was the dry mouth that was the worst of it all when he felt like he was choking on wool, as it crawled up from his throat and expanded in his mouth.

It was the same feeling he'd had at the revels with Voldemort when the man claimed the head of the table, where Draco's father had always resided. It was amidst the Malfoy walls that Voldemort let muggle-borns hang the ceiling, and orgies happened on the marbled floors. It was amidst the Malfoy walls, in the very drawing-room where he'd taken his first steps, and held his mother's hand, that he'd watched as the worst muggle-born of them all, was mercilessly tortured by his aunt.

He’d seen, then, how her blood had been as red as his was.

Draco's tongue rolled in his mouth, as he felt the dryness creeping once more. He wouldn't let it take him, he decided, squaring his shoulders and looking at his quill. He'd attended therapy after the war when his betrothal to Astoria had fallen apart because of it. "_What’s wrong with you, Draco_?" she'd asked him when he cringed at her suggestion to move into the Manor after their marriage. She'd toured the grounds with his mother, reflecting upon the wondrous gardens, and exclaiming over the hordes of house-elves they had. "_How lovely_!" she'd remarked before she'd said to him later, how she wished she could have seen the drawing-room.

He'd wanted to vomit at her words as if the room wasn't one of horror, where their classmate had bled on the walnut floors. No matter how the elves had scrubbed the floors after, he'd known the very cracks that her blood had oozed over, and had vomited more than once when he forced himself to stand in the room. He couldn't let go of the things that he'd heard, the things that he'd _seen_ -

Every muggle-born that had been tortured, had reminded him of Granger, the classmate that he'd grown up beside. He lost weight during the war and had never regained it; his rib cage exposed beneath his dress shirts. He used the Malfoy crest to button his sleeves still yet had abandoned his signet ring - he’d thrown it into the Thames, as muggles wandered about him. His fingers would remain naked, untouched by rings about them.

He’d pushed Astoria away, the same as he had his mother.

He’d moved to live in a flat near Diagon Alley, one that Theo had arranged for him to rent. The Malfoy name hadn’t recovered after their trials, where his father had taken the brunt of the blame. He’d been sentenced to Azkaban where he’d taken the Dementor’s Kiss. His was a legacy Draco had little wish to inherit, and when he’d found a card for therapy (pushed under his door by a squib neighbor, after he’d woken them from the nightmares he was having, his silencing charms faltering) he’d gone. It was loony Lovegood who’d become a mind healer, or therapist, after the war, and she’d received him without batting an eye.

Truthfully, it was because of Lovegood, that he’d written the first letter after all, and had tried again after it’d been rejected. It was an inexplicable need, one that lodged between his ribs, and pressed against his chest - a need to see Hermione again, to speak with her, to know that she was alive and real. The owl that had arrived on his windowsill had fixed him with a cold glare and beat its beak against the window until he opened it.

It'd taken him months to find Granger, using funds from his inheritance to hire trackers to find her. She'd vanished after the war, and seemingly not even the Weasel or the rest of his family knew where she was. Not that he'd asked them, the Aurors that they now were, but he still read the Daily Prophet. Nor had there been any sign of his godfather, until he'd learned from his trackers of a remote village near Wales, one that carried remarkable, potent potions made by a Mr. Parvenue. It hadn’t taken Draco long to realize the name was an anagram, one from his godfather’s first and last name, the same as Tom Riddle had become the Dark Lord. 

“Slytherin,” Draco murmured. It made no sense, after all, for Snape to keep his name after the war, not if he wanted to exist outside of the wizarding world. A snake always knew when to shed its skin, never reluctant to do so.

He'd written him a letter, a perfectly Slytherin one, inquiring after how his godfather was. Draco made no mention of the war, or their changing fortunes, and refrained from searing the parchment paper with _her_ name. He'd known the same as if he'd been a true seer that Granger was with his godfather and had clenched his hand repeatedly to keep from remarking on the fact or anything that would give him away.

That was until he'd read his godfather's letter.

_Draco,_

_Stay amidst the world that you know._

_SS_

When had Draco ever been one to listen?

The Malfoys were born to follow, just as the Blacks were made to disobey. With the lineage of both families flowing through his veins, he’d known which he would listen to, and which he would not. It was a need, if not an obsession, for Draco to find Hermione again.

His godfather had no obligation to protect him any longer, not after the war was over, and Draco had learned of the oath that his godfather had been sworn to. Oh, the entire wizarding world knew of his godfather's exploits, after they'd been splashed across the Daily Prophet, thanks to St. Potter. Draco had sneered when he saw it, doubting that his godfather would have appreciated the supposed clearing of his name or the Order of Merlin that he'd been awarded in absentia. Snape had been sworn to oaths from the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, yet fewer still had known of the oath he'd made to Draco's mother, Narcissa. Snape had sworn to her that he would protect him, more than his father ever had.

The oath had been broken when Snape had laid dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, and Draco had escaped with his parents from the Battle of Hogwarts. They were snakes still, knowing how best to save their skins. Whoever had saved his godfather’s life, and Draco had an inkling of who it was, had superseded the oath that Snape had made to his mother. Nothing, Draco knew, had more power than a life debt.

Snape _belonged_ to Granger now.

Though, Draco snorted, if she was still the bleeding-heart Gryffindor, she would have his godfather believe they were equals. He'd wager that Granger knew little about life debts or the enormous power that she held over his godfather now. He remembered how his father had confided that he'd rather see someone - even his truest friend - dead before him than owe them a life debt. Lucius hadn't answered when he'd asked him if he would do the same if it were his mother or his son. He hadn’t needed to, as Draco hadn’t been brave enough to ask him the question in the first place; biting his tongue until it bled instead.

Draco drew his quill against the parchment again.

_Godfather,_

He hesitated a moment, his tongue brushing the corner of his lip before he scrawled the words.

_I want to see her. Please._

_D. M._

He’d abandoned pretense, knowing that Snape would reject anything else.

The same, arrogant owl from before had returned shortly after he'd sent his letter. It'd held a rolled letter in its talons and bristled as it handed it to him. "You're just like him," Draco muttered. He hadn't known that his godfather had become an Animagus.

_Draco,_

_No._

_ S._

The owl easily sidestepped the quill that Draco threw.

* * *

“Did he write again?”

Hands covered Severus’s eyes, as she leaned against his back and rested her head on his shoulder. He relaxed into her touch, giving a short nod, knowing she could read the parchment before him. He’d made no secret of Draco’s letters to him, not since the first when Hermione had noticed an owl bearing the Malfoy crest on its collar, and it had allowed her to stroke its wings. She’d always had an affinity for beasts. 

“She was the only muggle-born who mattered,” Hermione read, her hands moving to cradle his cheeks. She felt his smooth skin beneath her touch and knew that he reveled in the feel of her touch. “The only one that I’d ever met who could compete with me, challenge me, and I -" the ink had splotched across the page as if a quill had been ground into it. "I didn’t know what to do with her.”

“Do you think we could have been friends?”

They both paused at Draco’s question, and Hermione nibbled at her bottom lip. It was a habit of hers, one that had made Severus kiss her soundly on more than one occasion. She reveled in their time together and felt relief as she stayed in the present. No matter how her thoughts had wandered before, Severus was always a part of them, and it was his voice that she’d heard the times she’d slipped under. He always brought her back from her thoughts, the times when she was writhing under _Crucio_ and heard Bellatrix’s manic laughter in her ear.

And here was Bellatrix’s nephew, the boy she’d grown up with, and seen tortured into manhood, writing about her. The question was one that she considered for a moment, turning over in her mind, before pushing it aside. She would think of it later when Severus wasn’t with her, and no one would hear if she cried. There was a spot in the garden where she favored reading, one where the herbs grew beneath her feet, and the sun would kiss her cheeks.

“You were always his equal,” Severus murmured, “as well as mine.”

Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink at his words, his praise never something that she took lightly. “Insufferable know it all,” Hermione quoted, and they both laughed quietly.

He knew that she had thoughts still, ones that snapped and snarled. They could be merciless, the weakness of her mind making her apt to be consumed at times; when she’d grasp at his sleeve and ask who he was.

The times when she did so had lessened, yet he knew, the thoughts lingered still. The thoughts of being less, of wanting more -

The thought that she could have done anything, been anything if only she'd tried more. As if she could have changed anything, holding the darkness that swarmed through her veins from the mark that Bellatrix had carved into her, through will alone. She’d done the same at Hogwarts, acting as if she was enough to tear done the blood prejudice that ran from the very stone halls, of the school that she loved.

And she had, only in ways none of them had expected.

Hermione had been marked since the beginning, to taunt, and to challenge those who held to the night instead of the day. He berated himself still, for the times he had mocked and derided her, remembering how she’d cried when he’d been unmoving in the face of her lengthened teeth.

“Truly?” Hermione asked, and he burned at the hesitating note in her voice.

“Truly,” he replied.

There was silence between them, and Severus stiffened as he knew the way that her thoughts were turning. “Then why,” she faltered. “Severus -“

“Hermione -“ he started, always feeling a thrill go through him, when he heard how she said his name.

“What are you doing, Severus?” she asked gently, her thumb drawing circles against his cheek. “With me, here?”

She turned her head, brushing her lips against his scarred neck.

He shivered at the feeling, something that didn’t go amiss. “I’m so much better than before,” Hermione said, drawing her lips from his neck to the outline of his jaw. There was never a pause to her movements, nor to her thoughts as he basked in her adoration. One that he knew that he didn’t deserve.

Not someone like him, no.

It was a wonder still, that she hadn’t awoken from the bed they shared, and run from him. He knew that she felt her feelings for him truly, just as he returned them tenfold. His feeling for Lily was nothing compared to the way he felt about Hermione, willingly caring for her instead of placing her in St. Mungo’s, or dropping her on Weasley's doorstep. No, Severus had little doubt of their feelings, but still -

Still, he knew that she could do better than him.

Then the life they had, one where they saw little others from the wizarding world, and spent their days in research, and theory, while he brewed potions and she read near him. Her memory stayed with her more than ever before, while her thoughts wandered less, and her nightmares continued to lessen. They were potions of his own making, the ones he gave to her, that soothed the horrors of the war and drew the present closer to her.

Even if she left him, he’d willingly make them for her, the awake look in her eyes like a balm to his soul. She had her moments still when her gaze would turn hazy, and she'd hesitate in her step before his hand found hers again.

He wanted to hate himself for depriving the world of the brilliant, muggle-born witch who could have taken the Ministry by storm. He smirked as he remembered how she’d taken Gringotts, alongside Weasley, and Potter, showing bravery that was suited to her House. Yet it was more than the characteristics of her house that defined Hermione, but the way she embraced life, holding to the light with a tenacity unrivaled by none. There were times when he’d held her in his arms, letting her sleep, while wondering if he was doing the right thing.

What right did he have to her?

None, an inner voice reminded him. He had no right to Hermione, nor life in the light. It mattered not that the war had ended, not when he’d spent a lifetime in the dark and felt the shadows taint his soul. He felt them abate when he was beside Hermione, yet knew that the shadows could spread to her, cast from his very presence.

“I want you, Severus,” she murmured, drawing her teeth against his skin. He leaned into the feeling, even as his inner voice sneered, and reminded him that he could say something cutting, something that would push her away. “Just you.”

He knew that he wouldn’t.

He knew that he couldn’t. He’d pushed others away before, isolating himself until he’d worn the nickname of the greasy git of the dungeons as if it were a badge of honor. It’d been enough for him, as he felt himself adrift in the war, and used by both sides until he’d felt as if he had nothing left to give, not even to himself.

“Hermione,” he murmured, naked tenderness in his tone.

She’d given everything to him, and he knew that he’d given her something of himself.

Yet it wasn’t enough, was it? He wanted to give her everything he had, and everything he was. He wanted to laugh with her, a sound that no one in recent memory had ever heard, and stand beside her, regardless of whether she faltered.

Foolishly, he wanted to be enough for her.

She drew her hands down to his chest and hugged herself to him. She’d driven him to distraction, more than once, from the feel of her small body against his, and he’d quickly learned the value of casting stasis as if he were a young teacher and a rowdy class again. “But you don’t have to protect me,” she said, drawing her words slowly. “You don’t have to stay here, Severus, with me. I -“

She looked at him with her earnest, caramel-colored eyes.

“I want you to be happy.”

"And you think, witch, that I'm not happy here with you?"

She flinched at his harsh tone, before his words sunk into her skin. “You mean it? Truly?” Hermione whispered.

He wasn’t an impulsive man.

But with her -

“Truly,” he replied.

He kissed her with abandon then, making her whimper against his bruising touch. He kissed her as if he saw her, and knew that she saw him in turn, and knew, too, that they wouldn’t let each other go.

* * *

And Draco?

He received a letter, one precisely folded, in tiny, little squares and delivered by a ragged half-kneazle. He felt the wool seep into his mouth again as he opened it, and recognized _her_ writing -

_Draco,_

_My name is Hermione Granger. I’m a muggle-born, one often described as an insufferable know-it-all._

His eyebrows raised - as if he didn’t know who she was. What she was. (She could have been his friend, brilliant, and brave, and with a loyal streak that no one else had.)

He felt the wool abate, at her next words.

_And I could use a friend._

_H.G._

He traced the words with trembling fingers, seeing, then, that she wanted to start again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Soup, and Grammarly, thank you! 🦝🖤


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-indulgent continuation of the last chapter - I've been toying with the idea of writing a triad story with Severus/Hermione/Draco... 
> 
> So, if you only want to read sevmione, read chapters 1-3. Chapter 4 and onward will focus on them being a triad, though it won't include Severus/Draco slash. There will be a slight change in tone, as Severus and Hermione are in a better place than before, with Draco the one whose a mess. (Or, the primary mess, lol). 
> 
> It felt wonderful to write this - besides two drabbles I posted on Tumblr, I've been writing as slow as molasses! I wrote this faster than anything before, I credit Draco with elbowing his way into this piece, lmao. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope to update my other works soon! 🤗💜

“Draco?”

The man groaned as he felt hesitant fingers against his throbbing temple.

“Merlin witch,” Draco breathed, feeling pain radiating from his head. He hadn't known what to expect after he'd rammed into the wards, and they'd opened, launching him forward. It'd been a mistake to wear formal robes, the kind he hadn't worn since, well, never, since he'd had them specially made before he'd left. “Your wards are more formidable than the manor’s.”

Hermione’s hand trembled at the mention of his ancestral home, and Draco flinched.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

“I’m sorry -“ he started but was interrupted.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, “Severus didn’t invite you.”

His eyes fluttered open, his steel-grey eyes meeting warm caramel ones. "You don't have many visitors, do you, Granger?"

She shook her head, her loose curls framing her face. “Why are you here, Draco?” she asked again, concern threading her tone. He felt something flutter in his chest, as he realized her fingers were stroking his temple still. “You’re going to have a lump,” she added, in a softer tone than he was used to.

It was almost _normal_, the way she was talking to him.

As if they had no hideous past between them.

“Can’t you heal me?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrow.

“I…” Hermione glanced back toward the cottage, where the front door was left open. She’d felt the wards as soon as they were disturbed, and she’d left it open in her haste to see who’d arrived.

Severus had left for the village, the apothecary begging him to come down. There was a rampant case of a magical cold throughout the village, where sneezing squibs found themselves turning into clucking chickens, or flustered cats, or in the case of one patient, a braying donkey. It hadn’t been reported to the Ministry yet, the patients careful to hide themselves away in their homes from any passing muggle, before the apothecary had decided to contact the Parvenues.

Severus had been loath to leave her, but Hermione had convinced him she’d be fine on her own, for the afternoon. “_I never thought you’d want to babysit a Gryffindor_,” she’d teased him, ignoring his scowl.

He didn’t scare her, not anymore.

“I have a bag of peas in the freezer,” Hermione said, and Draco snorted.

“Peas? Are you going to make me a meal, Granger?”

Her lips crooked in a smile, something Draco had never seen from her before.

Oh, he’d seen her smile at Potter, or Weasel, but never at _him_. “It’s a muggle thing,” Hermione explained, using the swotty tone he knew well. “My parents used to give me a bag of frozen vegetables if I had a,” she motioned to the lump on his head. “A bump or a bruise. It helps the swelling go down. Though -“

She frowned.

“Why are you here?” Hermione said. She’d never been one for puzzles that she couldn’t figure out. “Did you come to ask Severus for something? Are you in trouble?” He wanted to laugh at the concern in her tone, something he’d never heard from Crabbe or Goyle. Or Pansy, not anymore after she'd tossed wine in his face when he'd cheated on her. (He supposed he deserved it, though not the Howlers she'd sent for weeks after.) 

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you?”

His therapist - Lovegood - had recommended going with the truth, after he’d told her his idea to visit. “They’ll see through anything else,” she’d said, and he knew it was one of her truthful statements. (Everything else Lovegood said - about wrackspurts and gloomy…gloomy glib - gloomy something - Draco disregarded.)

Hermione stared at him a moment, before bursting into laughter. "Me? A muggle-born -"

“A witch,” Draco interrupted. “You’re a witch, Granger, the same as I’m a wizard.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not Malfoy.”

“Unfortunately, I am, Granger,” he replied, with a bitter laugh. He was the heir who got drunk every night and had been banned from countless pureblood establishments across Britain. It was of little consequence to him, as many things were, after the war.

Granger and his godfather were of consequence to him, as his letters had made clear. It was like a buzzing in his ear, the constant, insistent feeling that he see them in person.

He had nightmares still, of Hermione sobbing on the drawing-room floor, as his aunt carved the filthy word into her arm. He'd considered going to St. Mungo's after he'd tried to burn the East Wing down and had only succeeded in burning the drawing-room before the house-elves had stopped him. They'd half carried him, as he sobbed, to his bed before plying him with calming draught and sleeping potions.

As they did every time, he wasn’t drunk, as if that was a life at all.

"What happened in the third year?"

“You punched a foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach.” Draco replied, “because you’re a bleeding-heart Gryffindor that cared about a hippogriff named Buckbeak.”

He remembered the creature that had attacked him well; the furious light in Hermione’s eyes, and the way her magic had flared about her. He’d learned how powerful she was then, and his nose had paid for it.

“It _is_ you,” Hermione said, inwardly cursing herself for not checking earlier. She’d been too startled by the sight of a groaning figure in the yard, one she recognized as Malfoy. He was older; his cheekbones harshly defined and his eyes duller than before, but it was the boy she’d always known.

Only he was a man now, one that had taken interest in her and Severus, for some indescribable reason. Hermione knew that Draco had been sending them letters still, though Severus had stopped sharing them with her. She knew his relationship with the Malfoys was a painful part of his past, considering Lucius the brother he’d never had, as a young man. Their views had taken them two different ways, and Severus had made the choice to leave the memory of them behind.

Perhaps, Hermione wondered, that had been a mistake as she saw how bloodshot Draco’s eyes were. He looked well, sick, the same as he had while he worked on the cabinet.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked, her cheeks flushing as she realized she’d been cradling his head on her lap.

She knew how it felt to feel vulnerable, her health having drawbacks still. She’d been more optimistic than Severus had been, as she’d eagerly celebrated her strengthening memory. She was able to remember Severus as her partner and was thrilled at being able to read - and remember - books again. Severus shared his potions journals with her, often discussing theories and revolutionary uses for ingredients, far more patient than he’d been as her teacher.

Though, Severus had been unsurprised, as her body began to weaken. It seemed than her mind was healing at the cost of her body, as she found the trembling in her hands worsened, and her ability to walk faltered. There were times when Severus had to carry her from room to room, something he did without complaint. He’d traced soothing circles on her back while she sobbed against his chest and murmured soft words in her ear. His gentleness was something she reveled in, having known nothing like it before.

“There’s peas and corn -“

At least, she hoped so.

Draco turned his head toward her stomach, the folds of her robe tickling his skin. “Why can’t you heal me, Granger?”

"Hermione," she replied. "You can call me Hermione since you're here."

And she’d called him by his first name, something she’d done without thinking.

“Hermione,” Draco said, tasting her name on his tongue. He’d never called her by her first name during school, and neither had she. Something felt different between them as if the grievances of the past had been undone.

Had she forgotten?

He doubted it, knowing how flawless her memory had been during school.

“Why can’t you heal me? A small _Episkey_?" he repeated, "Tell me. Please," he added as if she were any purebred witch. He knew how to remember his manners, though if Hermione had read the Daily Prophet, she would have doubted it. There was nothing the reporters liked better than to feature the Malfoy heir who’d fallen from grace.

“My magic is unstable,” Hermione admitted, her posture stiff as she moved to her knees, and then to her feet. “I…I can’t cast like I used to. Not without Severus here.”

Her magic fluctuated with her health, and she found with her shaking hands, many spells were near impossible to cast. Severus had been teaching her to use wandless spells, yet there were times she simply couldn’t cast them - she felt a weakness inside her, one that she tried her best not to despair over. Her magic hadn’t given up on her.

She knew she would recover. She _would_.

Draco regarded her a moment, before he too, stood.

"I suppose that's why you didn't hex me on sight," he joked lightly. The wards had been harsh enough to send him stumbling across the well-groomed lawn before he'd fallen to the ground. He'd been desperate to break through them, knowing it was the place his owl had been flying to.

“If your intentions are true, the wards will let you through,” Hermione explained, as studious as the girl he had known. “Though not without pain, as you’ve seen. If you meant to hurt us, they wouldn’t let you through at all.”

The use of Snape’s first name was something he wasn’t used to, not coming from _her_ lips, but he didn’t complain. “Did Snape create them?” Draco asked, following her as she started up the path to the cottage.

“Yes,” she replied, “he modified the wards that were originally used at Hogwarts. They judge by intention, though they’ll never open if you’ve been specifically banned.”

Draco noted that Snape hadn’t banned him, despite his short replies when he’d asked to visit them. Snape’s last reply had told him not to owl again.

And Draco hadn’t.

He’d come to visit instead.

Draco blinked, feeling Hermione’s hand on his shoulder, and her accompanying weight. “My legs, they -“ she exhaled, her brows pinched together. “They forget to work sometimes.”

He felt her trembling against him and moved to steady his arm around her waist. “Why isn’t Snape with you?”

"I'm not a child," Hermione replied a testy note to her voice. Leaves crunched beneath their feet as they neared the doorway, and the scent of cinnamon greeted them. "He'll be back in a few hours."

"To murder me?" Draco teased, feeling the witch rest against him. Merlin, she had lost weight since he'd last seen her, and then she'd been living on the run.

“He could,” Hermione acknowledged, entirely serious, “But you’re my friend, aren’t you?”

He made a small sound, remembering the letter she’d written to him. He’d lost his nerve to write back to her, nothing coming from his quill as he tried to write back to her. “You - we - we are,” he stammered.

Somehow, a part of him hadn’t believed the words he’d read to be true.

“Then I won’t let him,” Hermione replied, and he felt nervous flutters in his stomach, knowing that she meant it. Throughout their years at school, Draco had watched and hated the Golden Trio. They were always laughing together, touching, and reveling in each other’s company. It was unseemly and hideous, something he detested, and wanted without end.

He'd never had a friendship as the Golden Trio had. He knew that people became his friends because of what he had, the same as he befriended them for what they could offer him. He wasn't surprised when one heiress in Slytherin had lost her supposed friends when her family was found to be bankrupt, her father having attempted to cheat Gringotts. She'd become a social pariah, one who Draco knew had spent the rest of her years at Hogwarts eating at the Astronomy Tower.

The Golden Trio was different that way, Draco knew. He'd watched them fight, Weasley often goading Hermione into a fight, that would result in weeks of tense silence between them. Potter would often placate them, though he had his own fights with Weasley and Hermione. Draco had learned after the first argument between the Golden Trio that they'd makeup, no matter the circumstances, something that had felt like bile in his stomach.

He’d craved it like a drug - the true, unselfish loyalty between them - and the friendship they had.

Having taken what anyone gave him at muggle clubs, he knew the cravings felt the same; only one could be easily solved, while the other couldn’t. Draco bit his lip, knowing better than to say anything about them now.

“I’d appreciate that,” Draco said wryly, giving her a crooked smile.

And as Hermione directed him to the kitchen, Draco saw how they'd made the cottage into a home. It was warm and welcoming, reminding him of his childhood nursery with its blue pastel, grey accents, and neat towers of books. He helped her to the kitchen, where there was a floral window seat. The windows overlooked the coast, where Draco could hear the crashing waves.

“Should I do the muggle…thing?” Draco asked, quirking his brow.

Hermione smirked. “You won’t melt into a puddle, will you?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, his eyes narrowing.

She laughed, waving her hand. “Never mind.”

She crossed her trembling legs and leaned against the table, feeling its sturdy weight. She put her elbow on it, holding her chin in her hand. She watched as he retrieved peas from the freezer, tentatively pressing the package against his head. “It stings!” Draco exclaimed, and she felt her lips twitch.

“It shouldn’t for long,” Hermione replied, motioning him to join her.

"You should have warned me," Draco pouted, reminding her of when he was younger. Still, he slid beside her, careful not to jostle her as he too, leaned his elbow on the table. "Though I deserved it, showing up uninvited, I suppose. What would Skeeter think?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at the mention of the notorious woman. “Now _she’s_ a cockroach,” she said. “Or a beetle, to be specific. I kept her on my shelf for a few weeks, after she -“ she hesitated, biting her lip. “She said some unkind things about…us,” she finished lamely.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, then shut it.

_Oh_.

He remembered the articles about the Golden Trio that Skeeter had written, clearly having no love for Hermione. Shaking his head, he ignored the elephant in the room; the death of Potter, and the hospitalization of Weasley. He wasn’t cruel enough to taunt her, nor childish enough to tease her, thinking she had moved on.

Not when the feeling of his father’s hand on his shoulder haunted him, and the screams of his mother rang in his ears, and the Dark Lord’s face crept into view.

He too had countless things he drank to forget.

Or at least, ignore until he woke up in the afternoon, with Pipsy dashing cold water in his face. (The loyal house-elf having found it was the best way to wake him, or the nude companion beside him, up.)

He didn’t want to think about that, not when he was next to Hermione.

Draco swallowed, feeling warmth emanating from her small frame. Really, he thought, how is it possible that he's warmer beside a muggle-born witch than anyone he's known before?

"Skeeter is loathsome," Draco agreed, before telling her some inane detail from the Daily Prophet. Her laughter made his lips tilt into a lazy smile, the kind he was famous for in school and had never shown her -

No matter how much he’d wanted to.

Then, they began to chat, as if it was the most natural occurrence in the world, he felt the insistent ache to see her ease - until, well - hours had passed, and Hermione had fallen asleep with her head against the table. He watched as her nose scrunched in her sleep, as if she were a rabbit, and thought she’d never looked more at ease.

How pathetic that the sight was the best he’d seen in _years_.

And then -

He heard a voice he'd known since childhood, a voice he knew almost better than his mother or his father's. "**Get _out_**.” Snape hissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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